Kong

‘C’arn, feel the breeze.’

Dicko waves his bare white arse in the air; jeans wrinkled about his ankles, balls swinging from side to side like a Newton’s Cradle.

‘Cover it up dickhead.’ Scott twists the top off a beer, presses the tread of his shoes into the damp sand by the fire’s edge.

Kong crouches – the way Mai used to.

‘Hey Kong. Looks like you’re taking a slash, a nice little girly slash.’

Dicko wiggles his arse. His jeans up around his knees now and he walks away from the fire, small steps like a geisha, turns to look over his shoulder, lifts a hand to cover his mouth. Giggles.

Kong ignores him, stretches out his arms and warms his hands. Scott dips his hand in the Esky, doles out cold meat pies.

‘What, no sauce?’

‘Fuck off, Dicko.’

 

Light failing, Dicko watches flakes of piecrust escape on the wind, land on gentle waves.

‘How long do you reckon they float?’ Dicko says.

Scott raises an eyebrow. Moves closer to Kong.

‘Do you reckon they sink straight away?’

Scott shakes his head, watches as Kong stands then walks down the beach.

‘Fuck, Dicko.’

‘Christ, I was only talkin.’

Scott weaves a stick through coals. ‘His fucken sister, mate. You don’t fucken think.’

Dicko dusts his hands above the fire, looks down the beach. Kong now a dark outline by the water’s edge. For a long time they watch in silence as flames lick the salty air.

Kong returns, stands in the space between darkness and light, face canopied by his hooded sweater, hands jammed in pockets.

‘There was seaweed in her hair when they found her.’

‘Like a mermaid.’ Dicko leans across the flames, passes Kong a beer.

‘Yeah.’ Kong crouches by the fire. ‘Something like that.’

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